Hunter: Light
by Beth Weasley
Summary: Hermione is NOT happy. At all. What happens when she decides to take action and end this farce? Songfic Part 1 of the No Angel series.


Wow, what an effect spending 5 hours out in the sun mowing the yard has had on me, especially since I took my CD player with me. I was listening to the three Dido songs that I have, and all of a sudden, instead of the wet thunderstorms that were predicted, inspiration hit me like a huge thunderbolt straight from whatever god or angel rules creativity. For the first time in over 9 months, I have brand-new fic material, and I have the basics on paper within 12 hours of being inspired. I'm not worrying about writing out these one-shots on paper, I'm just going to type until my fingers drop off, since I've got outlines for them already.

Beth Weasley proudly presents to her readers the "No Angel" quartet: four one-shot vignettes sparked by three songs from Dido's "No Angel" album. The title of each story indicates which song inspired the ficlet. You might want to listen to the songs as you read, but it is by no means required, as the lyrics are in the fic. Thank you for reading, and I would love to get your feedback!

Hunter: Light 

Hermione trudged up the sidewalk along Spelman Street, her eyes on the concrete just in front of her feet. It was dark out, and the overcast, ugly weather suited her mood perfectly. _Whatever was I **thinking **when I said yes to him back in seventh year?_ Ten years, and he still wouldn't budge on the things that mattered to her, so she wouldn't move on any of his issues, either.

**With one light on, in one room,**

**I know you're up when I get home.**

She could see the light from his—well, it was _supposed_ to be theirs, but she'd refused to ever sleep there—room, shining out into the darkness. For some, it would have been a beacon of hope, a reason to move faster, to be home with loved ones. Not for one Hermione Weasley, however. That rectangle of gold from her husband's bedroom window was more of something to flee.

It had only been on the wedding night that she found out just what Ron expected in a wife. A housewife, to be more precise. He had expected her to cook, clean, sew, mend, bear, and raise, not necessarily in that order. He had had no intention of allowing his new wife to go to university, as she had always dreamed, or to study anything beyond what charms and potions the average housewitch required, most of which had already been covered in their standard Hogwarts classes. And _children?_ Why, he expected her to be eager to have little red-headed brats running all over within a few years, something she had no intention of allowing.

Then there was Ronald Bilius Weasley himself. Until she'd married him, Hermione had had no idea what an utter _bore_ Ron was. Everything was either Quidditch, food, chess, or pranks for the boy, and there was nothing she could do to make him _grow up_, not even a bit. Even at twenty-seven, Ron still acted like a twelve-year-old. She could barely stand being in the same house with him. There was no way she was sharing his bed.

No, Hermione had her own room in the run-down flat—well, what passed for a room, at least. She had cordoned off a small corner of the main living area with a tiny window that looked over the alley behind the building, and put up sheets, wards, and Silencing Charms for walls. A pad served for a stiff bed, as it had for years, and she had used a Sticking Charm to put up a few shelves for the books she managed to get from Harry every year for her birthday and Christmas. Her best friend had a list of the books she wanted, and he usually managed three per occasion without Ron complaining about anything. The Man-Who-Lived-Again had tried giving her four once, only for Ron to start accusing him of trying to "steal 'Mione's affections." Harry and Hermione had both thrown up their hands and turned away at such an absurd declaration. She never got more than three books at once from Harry ever again, though he _did_ sneak one about every month. Those, however, she insisted on giving back once she'd read them, as though he had loaned them. It was the only way Ron would let her have so much reading material.

**With one small step upon the stair,**

**I know your look when I get back.**

As soon as she spotted the clock on the landing in the building, she knew that she was in for yet another tongue-lashing. It was past nine. Ron was always drunk by eight thirty, unless Fred or George had asked him to close down the shop.

The twins never asked for that favour anymore. The one time they had, the door had been wide open when George arrived to open the next morning, and a third of the merchandise was missing, as well as over two hundred galleons from the till. A bottle of Firewhiskey on the counter, with Ron's fingerprints all over it, had been all the information they needed. Ron never minded the store by himself after that.

Her teeth ground loudly as she climbed the narrow stairs to the top floor. The two of them barely subsisted on the meagre wage Ron pulled in from the store, and much of that went straight to the liquor store. She had the little she did because _she _went out after Ron left for Diagon Alley, and _she_ worked at the Archers, down on Osborn Street. She hated the place, though it was a nice little pub in and of itself. It was the alcohol that she hated. It turned a once-sweet boy into someone she was afraid to be around, and she loathed the fact that here she was, serving the foul drink to others just to put food in her mouth.

Hermione quietly edged open the flat's door, peering in to see what Ron was up to in his stupor. The telly was on, and she could just see the shock of uncombed red hair over the top of the recliner, the only real piece of furniture they owned.

**If you were a king, up there on your throne,**

**Would you be wise enough to let me go?**

**For this queen you think you own**

**Wants to be a hunter again.**

**I want to see the world alone again,**

**To take a chance at life again,**

**So let me go…**

Oh yes, she knew it was Ron in that chair. No one else was allowed to even touch it, not even Harry during his rare visits. The filthy green cloth always reeked of whatever Ron had decided was his favourite liquor for the moment, and Hermione just _knew_ that there had to be puke stains all over the wretched thing. He had his feet up, and she could hear him chewing and mumbling to himself. _Disgusting._

**The unread book, your painful look,**

**The TV's on, the sound is down.**

Then she spotted the book on the floor by the chair. It was the very newest Potions treatise, one that Harry had given her only yesterday, at the Archers. She hadn't even cracked the cover open yet, as yesterday's rush of customers just before the end of her shift had exhausted her. _Why didn't I think to put that somewhere safe? He'll have me over the coals for this one._ The author, his name boldly scrawled under the title and also, presumably, inside, where Harry had told her there was a note, was definitely not one of Ron's favourite people. In fact, Severus Snape was about his _least _favourite person in the whole world.

Her slight gasp caught her husband's attention, and he glared around the edge of the recliner. Trying not to see the death-rays almost coming from the blue eyes, Hermione peered at the telly, trying to figure out what was on, as Ron had turned the volume down to almost nothing. _Oh, no. Not 'South Park' again._ What money had not gone to drink had been used to buy every DVD of the show, which Ron watched over and over, utterly fascinated by the crude violence and language. Hermione hated it. If he wasn't watching a DVD, he was watching a new episode on the cable that the landlord piped into every flat.

**One long pause, then you begin,**

**"Oh, look what the cat's brought in."**

Ron eyed her up and down, and Hermione scowled as he took in her short black pencil skirt, the blouse she kept spotlessly white, the delicate-looking but sturdy black heels, dark hose, loose bun, and the waitress' apron at her waist. So she used everything she had to get the best tips she could out of her customers. She didn't seduce them, proposition them, or allow any of them to touch her at all. _If he doesn't stop looking at me like I'm some tuppence whore…_

"Well, look what the cat dragged in." The calm announcement held an edge of malice, sending a chill up Hermione's spine. This was not going to be pleasant. "Why the bloody hell are you dressed like a Knockturn Alley prostitute?" came the expected demand.

"I work at a _pub_," she replied frostily. "This is what all the waitresses wear." In fact, when she'd first taken the job, she'd been hesitant to accept the uniform, as dirty and worn as it had been then. However, a few spells in the privacy of her little niche had restored everything to its proper state, and the witch took pride in the face that she was the cleanest and most pleasant of all the waitresses at the Archers. Some of the regulars even asked for her specifically, even after just two months. So did newcomers, if they'd asked around.

"Oh? And how many _patrons_ did you take upstairs today?" Ron sneered nastily. Hermione never even noticed that she went white as a sheet before she answered.

**If you were a king, up there on your throne,**

**Would you be wise enough to let me go?**

**For this queen you think you own**

**Wants to be a hunter again.**

**I want to see the world alone again,**

**To take a chance at life again,**

**So let me go…**

**Let me leave…**

"You _dare_ speak to me like that?" she hissed. Once upon a time, he had called her his queen, and she had believed that he would be the king that would make everything in her world right again after the loss of her family and familiar to the Death Eaters. She knew better, now. Oh, how much better.

**For this crown you've placed upon my head**

**Feels too heavy now,**

Oh yes, he had given her a crown. A crown made of iron bigotry, lies, and dependency. He had chained her with their marriage, with something that was supposed to set souls free to enjoy each other as the gods willed so long ago.

A crack rang through the room as hand connected with freckled cheek.

"I swore on our wedding day that I would be faithful, and this is how you repay me." Her voice was deadly quiet now, but Ron seemed not to notice the danger he was now in.

"You broke it, too. Whore! You went to Snivellus, I know it! You gave him that which is mine by right and vow!" Her eyes widened at such a wild accusation, then narrowed.

**And I don't know what to say to you,**

**But I'll smile anyhow,**

**And all the time, I'm thinking, thinking…**

A sneer curled her lip. "What makes you think I'd do such a thing, Ronald Bilius Weasley?" He should have known to step down right then and there, but drink—she could smell it now, pure, undiluted tequila, and there was more than one bottle laying around—clouded his mind. _This is my chance to be free of him, once and for all._ She knew the law by heart, now, and he had just given her the opening she needed to break the magical bonds between them without harm to herself or her future.

"It's right here, inside this damned book!" Ron thundered, lifting the treatise. "He autographed it! 'To my dearest Hermione—I look forward to seeing you again, soon, where we can continue our discussion in private and at your leisure.'" The words were said in a high falsetto, grating on the witch's nerves even more than usual. The idiot had this coming to him.

"Oh, is that all you're worked up about?" Hermione asked in a sickly sweet tone, glancing at her fingernails as if Ron didn't matter to her.

"Bloody well right, I'm worked up about it! You've been banging him for weeks, at least! Given him a lot to thrap about, have you? Bet you he did on this piece of trash! Potions treatise my ruddy arse!" She let him have his say, as he was simply digging his own grave. Finally, after a good twenty minutes of ranting, he ran out of steam. Hermione then grabbed him roughly by the neck of his grimy shirt.

"Now you listen to me. You think I've been running around, eh? Only to make sure that _you_ don't get us put in the poorhouse with your pinprick excuse for a brain. You can't even stay sober enough to mind the store by yourself. It's no wonder the twins are ashamed when people guess that you're their brother. And have you ever wondered why Ginny never comes with Harry when he visits? You disgust her, just like you do me ad every other person who _used_ to be your friend. But tonight, oh, tonight you've gone too far. You complain all the time that I'm always so niggly. Do you know why? It's because I've been bound to your sorry arse for ten years and am too repulsed by you on every level to let you come near me with so much as a ten-foot pole! Hell, if Severus asked me to nosh him right here and now, I would, as long as I got a rub up, but I wouldn't let _you_ do any such thing."

Ron's mouth flapped for a moment, unable to find words.

"And tonight has been the last straw. As insulted party in an unconsummated marriage, falsely accused of adultery, I dissolve the bonds between us forever. So mote it be!" There was a tingling rush, as though water had just poured over her, and Hermione grinned viciously. "I do hope that you know how you're going to get Harry to forgive you. Fred and George have wanted to drop you for months, and Harry only got them to keep you on because of me. Have a nice life… _not_." With that, Hermione dropped her now ex-husband, who sank limply to the floor, and turned to her little alcove. It only took her a moment to shrink all her books and tuck them in a pocket of her apron. Then she glanced down at her attire.

"Oh well. Harry will buy me something to wear. He's such a dear. But first, I think I'll visit a particular Slytherin with deft hands…" She swept out the door, never to return to the flat again.

Hermione's star was rising, and she was going to see the man who would help her on her way to the top.

**I want to be a hunter again.**

**I want to see the world alone again,**

**To take a chance at life again,**

**So let me go…**

**I want to be a hunter again.**

**I want to see the world alone again,**

**To take a chance at life again,**

**So let me go…**

**Let me leave…**

**Let me go…**

So how's that for a start? Mind you, the other fic I have in mind for this song is much darker, and probably fist quite a bit better, but I couldn't decide between the two, and went for both instead. I'll put the others out as soon as I get them typed up!

Beth Weasley


End file.
